by F. W. Harvey
‘What might that be?’
‘England. Oh, when shall I see her – my dear green land? Kind mother, harbouring my other dear mother like a sweet soul of the land itself, when shall I see you?’ he cried with tears.
‘Courage, mate!’
‘Courage, who says I have not got that in me? But what use is it? It is courage to walk out of these fields (I hate them though they are so like our own!) and be shot three hundred miles from home? What hope is there of getting away and back to my mates who fight and perish for my England! To die ineffectually like a dog, shot down by German bullets; or to go mad in a mine, are the alternatives – these, or remaining here.’
‘Are you so unhappy, then?’
‘Unhappy:– Is there more unhappiness in hell!’
Then, I think I can get you out of it,’ she said.
‘You! How?’
‘Since you are not happy here with – with the Germans,’ she went on, ‘and find your spirit in England –’
‘No, in France, now!’
‘Ah, yes, in France: I will try,’ she sobbed, ‘to –’
‘You said that before. What do you mean? How is such a thing possible?’ he asked, never noticing her eyes.
‘A strange thing has happened. A girl; the daughter of the farmer, Greta; ha! ha! ha! has been talking to me.’ Private Gain overcame his hysterics. ‘She want me to settle down here, after the war, and to – to marry her.’
‘Good Lord! But how is that going to help us?’
‘I don’t know – quite. I must get her to like me more.’
‘More?’
‘Enough to let me go – as –’
‘Aw what?’
‘As a woman will when she truly loves.’
‘That is rather cruel – Still –’
‘Yes, it is rather cruel. Still, why should she not suffer as others must suffer when they love real men?’
The arrival of ‘Prinz’ the enchanted and his master cut short the conversation.
CHAPTER III
Now here is ‘a situation’ wasted. How during a month one woman made love to another woman; was encouraged fiercely and cunningly, and finally induced (with lies) to make preparations for a double escape in man’s clothing to an enemy country in which both comfort and a return of passion awaited her – this, divested of the alluring studies of sex (dear to moderns) and psychology (the religion) must be told in one sentence, for the reason that we are not concerned with it; but with another matter; the escape, not of Greta, but of her false lover, and Willie.
Private Gain, having convinced the poor girl that his father was a large farmer in England, persuaded her to fly with him; minimising dangers and demanding only a map, a compass, two suits of civilian clothing, andhelp in forging a passport, as her contribution.
Meanwhile he learnt the language – or so much as a constant application could acquire.
Thus, early in 1917, there lay in a loft above ‘Prinz’s’ stall all that was necessary for the successful escape into Holland of two prisoners of war – all, that is, except what was in the lap of the gods.
Covered with clean straw, two brown-paper parcels tied securely with string awaited the spring which would cause them to sprout like bulbs into a strange blossom of hats, coats, maps, compasses, tinned food, and rucksacks. Spring would clothe the trees again, and dry up the marshes. In the spring lovers might journey together, finding dry ways, and the concealment of new foliage – and so might escaping prisoners.
For different reasons, three people waited eagerly and anxiously for what should befall ‘im wunderschonen Monat Mai.’ The German girl had a pretty little song that began so. She taught it to Private Gain who whistled it on to Willie. He had heard that Schumann setting of Heine’s poem before at a fashionable concert in England. It surprised him that it should be sung by an ignorant farm girl, and asked his companion to enquire what other songs Greta knew. Private Gain then proceeded to memorise half a dozen other tunes of similar type which included a delightful little ‘Volksliedchen’ (Schumann) and Schubert’s gay and lovely ‘Das Wandern.’
How had she learnt these? At school: from her mother: and from her father! Her two brothers – now at the front – knew many more songs than she. This information caused Willie to think again. How many lovely songs were known and sung even by cultured people in England? All his life long he had thirsted for music, and wasted his money attending popular concerts. Beyond a smattering of oratorio, a few symphonies, and one unforgettable performance of ‘The Dream of Gerontius’ gained at the Gloucester Festival, and the occasional snatched joys of visits to Queen’s Hall – what did he know? Nothing. What did the ordinary man know? Less than nothing. He had never even heard the names of Purcell, Byrd, Morley, Willbye, Orlando Gibbons, – the composers of an age when England was musically supreme in Europe. He had not the faintest suspicion that England was once more being raised to that position by such men as Elgar, Stanford, Hubert Parry, Vaughan Williams, Bantock, Holst, Goossens, Howells, Bliss, and Ivor Gurney.
Willie, having once heard the famous cycle of Stanford’s ‘Sea Songs’ sung at Gloucester: the singer being that quite inimitable artist, Plunket Greene: knew enough of what was going on, to guess at the rest: no more than that. The rich mine of English and Scottish folk-song, and incomparably the richest mine of any in Europe – the Irish – these were still undiscovered to him. And he was an enthusiast! What could the ordinary man know of them? Again – nothing. They were all shamed by one German peasant: a foolish sentimental girl, whose brain was no bigger than a bull-frog’s.
Music and poetry – so that had been led to believe – were not for them: were not, like the English air, part of their heritage: their birthright!
‘By God, it almost makes one wish that one were a bloody German!’ was the exclamation which, though unuttered, shaped itself in Willie’s mind as he thought of these things. That his own people, possessing a literature unexampled; a music only less worthy of praise than that of the land which produced Bach; a school of nature painters nowhere excelled:– that Englishmen should be fed with lies, and so led to despise its artists, and all the loveliness which had by them been left in trust for the generations, seemed a species of outrage: a treachery which murder hardly dwarfed.
This State-supervision of the Hun’s: this kultur now inspired by militarian: has led to servility, and so on to murder under orders: but at least it is not guilty of neglecting its children, and shutting them out from comradeship with those spirits whose speech is of peace and joy.
‘They are educated: we arn’t and that,’ said Willie, ‘is all about it.’ Then, very practically, he put the grievance from his mind, for there was nothing to be done. Problems of a pressing and personal kind became immediate. Thus one evening when a thin layer of crisp snow covered the ground they arrived back to find five new prisoners, and among them a slight Jewish-featured boy who eyes Willie’s companion curiously as they entered the lighted hut.
‘You are a Gloucester, mate, ain’t you?’ he asked.
Private Gain started. – ‘Yes.’
‘Expect you don’t remember me –’
‘No.’
‘Nor changing clothes in a field –’
‘Changing clothes – no!’
‘Well, I’d a taken me oath –’
Willie stepped in with the offer of a tinned tongue – ‘I dare say you are hungry, mate. Get outside this. It’s from England, and better than the Jerrys will give you.’
That cut short the talk, and enabled his companion to escape for the time being.
‘Well, of all bad fortune!’ said Willie next day, talking to his mate in shelter of ‘Prinz’s’ stall. ‘Do you think he suspects the truth – that dark fellow?’
‘He recognised me.’
‘Yes, and now he knows that you told a lie in your denial, that doesn’t matter. But does he suspect anything else?’
‘That I am a girl? I don’t think so. Why should he? Nobody else does
.’
‘It wouldn’t matter much if anybody of the others did. They are all decent men. But there is something about this new chap that I don’t like.’
‘What?’
‘I don’t know – his eyes; I mistrust him.’
‘But what could he do to us – what harm?’
‘What may not a base man do? Even a fool might do us harm – any and every harm, with so much as we have now at risk. If the truth should get to German ears all our fine chance of escape is ruined.’
‘Then had we best go soon?’
‘Look at the snow falling. Think of the bare country … this border marshes! No, we will wait. But we must watch … watch him carefully, and be prepared.’
That evening in the hut the new comer regaled the company with lewd stories. That is nothing. Every man tells lewd stories (exceptions being, it is said, Mr. Bernard Shaw and Oscar Wilde). But these were personal (he re-lived them) and not funny. On top of that they were told with a leer. It is the laugh that redeems such tales – as Chaucer knew well. Willie noticed that the leer was frequently in the direction of Private Gain.
‘Stow it!’ he cried at length. The Birmingham tyke measured him up and down, and decided to do so. Each knew then that he had made an enemy.
The situation fell from bad to worse without delay. Two days later Jenkins (that was his name) was caught stealing a fellow prisoner’s food, and thrown into a pond for punishment. It was Private Gain who caught him. ‘You’ll be sorry for this,’ cried the dripping thief, ‘you bitch!’
Now that is a queer phrase to apply to a man … Being neither of them fools both Willie and his companion knew then that it was now but a question of time before their secret would be published, not to the prisoners, but to the Germans.
‘Whether he knows or not (and I think he does) his suspicions are enough to pique the Hun curiosity. They will find an excuse for a medical examination. Then we are ruined,’ said Willie.
Red and white by turns, his companion assented.
‘We must go,’ she said, ‘at once.’
But it happened at that time that they were engaged in sawing wood under cover and in company with the old farmer whose eye was always overlooking them. So for two days – snow still falling – and on the third Jenkins, that cur, was seen currying favour with the German feldwebel.
‘Thank God he has got no parcels out yet!’ thought Willie, who knew that the short and sure way to the German’s favour was paved with tinned meat. ‘Thank God, too, he knows no German; and the feldwebel but little English. Still,’ he concluded, ‘this can’t go on.’
‘Gypsy,’ he said next day, ‘you must make arrangements to go as soon as possible. Things are very unsafe …’
That evening the feldwebel was presented by the enemy with a tin of stolen bully beef, and a conversation ensued which left the German laughing – a little incredulously. The English which the feldwebel knew was little but enough for the occasion. But as its result an order was received that Private Gain should report himself the following night for medical examination.
PART VII
ESCAPE
CHAPTER I
Snow married to rain produced an offspring that was both and neither. Sulky sleet (a snivelling unworthy baby of storm) dispirited the day with its peevish weariness. Snow in the air; rain upon the ground; it fell, melting instantly; and veiled with a cold misery all distances in earth or sky. Low ugly vapour took the place of clouds. There was no heaven. The earth was mud – just mud.
They squelched out – these two captives – to the farm thinking many things; saying nothing.
Prinz, the ox, awaited them already harnessed. Snow fell upon his snowy hide and was turned by the steady heat of his blood to water trickles. He looked like a snow-ox beginning to melt.
The old German was indoors – suffering from rheumatism. They stepped inside to take his ‘orders for the day,’ and exchanged a quick and joyous glance on being told that while the daughter attended to household duties (and her sire) they were expected to employ the morning carting hay to the outlying beasts, using the return journey to cart back firewood from the forest.
Willie led the ox round under the hay loft, where his confederate flung down fodder, one or two armfuls to deaden the fall of a heavier bundle; then more hay.
Willie had covered up this first escape kit and stood awaiting the fall of the second when Greta appeared. The girl had evidently been seen, from the loft, for as long as she stood chatting beneath, only fodder was thrown down.
Then, ‘No more,’ she cried out, and stood waiting for her soldier to descend. He came out of the stable having descended the inner ladder, and walked straight up to them. He was empty handed. As he came he buttoned his khaki overcoat more closely against the weather.
Then the old man called his daughter from the house …
‘Auf wiedersehn!’
They moved off. The girl looked back as she entered the house.
‘Now back for the kit!’ whispered Willie. His companion led on. ‘Gypsy.’
‘I’ve got it.’
‘God it? When? Where?’
‘I’ve got it on.’
The military overcoat was pulled open, and revealed civilian attire beneath.
‘By Jove! That was good work’ said Willie.
‘Yes.’
They went steadily on, leaving the farm buildings behind them. Nothing could have been simpler; less exciting. Yet their two hearts were thumping hard.
‘Everything’s gone now except the wind and a bit of light – and God, I suppose He’s up in the stars in bed.’
‘I wish we were, Gypsy.’
They were whispering together in a forest where woodland whispers covered up theirs. They were alone – at last.
Night had fallen, but night was no time for rest. Rather its blanket dark, star-eaten concealment, and a command to trudge forward with all speed in the knowledge that at dawn it would be whisked away exposing them to a thousand perils.
Escaping prisoners must reverse the biblical phrase: ‘Walk while it is yet night. For the day cometh when no man can walk – with safety.’
Guided by the north star glimpsed fitfully through forest boughs, they shambled on as fast as uneven ground and a tangle of undergrowth permitted; often stumbling; falling from time to time, but making progress: making for safety. Making for safety, but through danger, as we shall see. For escape is the least part of a prisoner’s hardships. His troubles truly begin when he is ‘out,’ and every man’s hand against him, and every dog’s nose.
The wind and leaves in motion gave them a sense of being followed but in fact deadened the sound of their scuffling steps and made for safety. The clinging bushes which seemed so like human shapes served as an excellent camouflage to their own shapes. Soon they ceased to be frightened into panic: ceased to halt, trembling, gripping an arm. They proceeded at a good pace, keyed up for real danger but proof against the imaginary. The stars paled, wheeling westward before the coming of dawn. They had reached a clearance in the wood and just then a sudden light was flashed upon them like a policeman’t bullseye. But it was only policeman Day. And he came not to detect but to warn, for the flash which had frighted them into rooted figures was reflected from a glass window. Where there are windows, there are men – presumably.
‘Back into the undergrowth!’ Like weasles they disappeared. Then, trembling, and checking the sound of their panting breath, they turned to watch. Only the hammer hammer of their two hearts … They thanked God that no cock crew to be answered by others, that no dog barked, that no smoke waved into plume blue against gold. The house, cottage, or whatever it might be, was isolated. Possibly it was a Woodman’s hut. But was it inhabited? And did it contain food? And had it a spring of water? They lay listening for a time and watching intently. Then a whisper, ‘Don’t move!’ Willie, escaped prisoner of war, had turned into Willie, a scout of the Gloucestershire Regiment. He disencumbered himself of impediments, and slid away upon
his belly. His companion lay obediently still, in covering shade, watching with bright brown fairies eyes the crawl, the crouch, the little run from bush to bush, and the final wriggle beneath that blazing star – the window.
Willie rose to his feet and gave one quick glance into the hut. She expected to see hi bob down again immediately – in the same movement. He remained standing. He turned and waved her towards him. She cleared the open space at a run and was at once standing beside him.
‘Is it empty?’
‘No.’
‘No! What – ?’
‘Look in!’
Screwing her eyes into pin points, she put her face against the warm glass. She did not notice the touch of it then. What she saw took away all other sensations. A man outstretched upon the floor. He lay motionless upon his back. Flies were on his face.
‘Dead?’
‘Dead, or dead drunk.’
‘Oh!’
‘Will find out.’
She took that as an invitation to follow him round the ramshackle hut to find the door. Would it be locked? It was not. It opened with a loud creak. Back both jumped round opposite corners. Still the man never stirred. They tiptoed in. Willie crept forward and hurled himself upon the figure, grasping it by its throat. It was it – not him. The head wagged horribly to and fro as Willie shook it. It was dead. And it smelt dead. Willie got up looking very pale. Behind him stood Gypsy with a knife in her hand.
‘What are you doing with that?’
‘I was afraid of what he might do to you.’
‘Well, put it away now, my dear. There’s no need for it. And remember, you must not commit murder even for me. They hand you for it.’
‘If you were dead I should want them to hang me – but they wouldn’t do it.’
‘And why not?’
‘Because I should kill myself.’
Willie looked at her curiously. From chalky-white her face gradually glowed to a golden-brown, the gypsy was blushing. Then she swayed forward into his arms and lay there sobbing. Willie soothed her, kissing her forehead.